


I Took The Road Less Traveled By

by WaywardDesertKnight



Series: Reaper Sport AU [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - what if, Eventual Sex, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, More Characters to Follow, More Relationships to Follow, Multi, Or in which Fëanor adopts children, References to Canon violence, References to Child Abuse, References to Suicide, References to past trauma, Sequel, culture clash, past canon character death, rebuilding relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardDesertKnight/pseuds/WaywardDesertKnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance at a new life, a chance to heal, these are the gifts of those who played the Sport of Námo. One participant has been offered a second chance because rules must be obeyed, even when they were broken to begin with. But can Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, the elf who some believe deserves no chance, really make amends for what he has done? And more importantly, will anyone let him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Awaken Once More

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is, the promised sequel to The Sport of Námo! For those of you who haven't, I recommend reading that one first, it is only twelve chapters, because this picks up at the epilogue of that fic. Also there is some character development that takes place there too. As I said, this one is a what-if for the catch-22 that Námo was left in after the events of that story. But enough of me rambling, enjoy!

It occurred to the elf that the idea of waking up had been lost on him once already. The idea of a physical body more so. Hands, strong hands, smooth and soft, the work carved into them over the centuries gone. A heartbeat, strong, steady, loud. Light, dappled through the leaves of a willow. Tongue, teeth, odd things after having forgone them for so long. His chest heaved, breathing, the smell of growing things. A long nap was what it really reminded him of, like the kind he used to take on when out with his mother on long walks through the hills. He frowned, the sky had changed color, now a light blue with no stars. Oh, right, he'd learned about that during his time in the game. Something called the 'Sun'. He disliked it, instantly and immensely now that he saw it in person.

Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion sat up for the first time since his death.

The Gardens bustled with silent activity, a strange juxtaposition, he decided as one of the Maiar brought him the raiment of the recently not departed. It took some struggle to clothe himself, everything about this new body was made of water, given the way he flailed about. The attendant moved to help him, but Fëanáro stopped them with a look. His time in the game had not robbed him of all his pride.

As the Maia moved aside, a face appeared, short silver hair framed their face, and as he moved to cry out, something caught in his throat. She smiled, a finger pressed to her lips. He swayed upright before he followed both her and the Maia out. As he walked the elf tried to steal glances at the other occupants, a crowd of elves with dark hair bewildered him until one stood up straight, gold thread glinting between the black strands. However before he could call out, a hand caught his arm and with a gentle tug guided him back to the path.

The group reached the gate, where their Maia companion paused on the threshold. "Welcome back to the world."

"Thank you," Fëanáro nodded, then as the gate swung shut, he turned to the other elf. "Mama, what... what are you doing here?"

Míriel smiled, "seeing as how no one was willing to claim you, I thought I should do so."

"Claim me?" He frowned.

"You're not the most popular person here, as I am sure you can guess. And the One wished for you to have a shepherd, so I volunteered." She offered her hand, "come along, my little spark."

The smith had the decency to blush at that, "no one's called me that in years." He grumbled, though delighted in it. Perhaps this decree of the Valar would not be a complete disaster after all. He took her hand gently, "I suppose it's off to Formenos then."

"Not quite, Formenos as it was no longer exists." Míriel shook her head as she guided them down the unmarked dirt road. "We are returning to Tirion, rather the outskirts thereof."

"Tirion," he growled, "of all the insufferable..." he shook the thought off, "Mama... You said no one would lay claim to me upon my return. What- Is Nerdanel- My boys-" each thought gutted him more and more by the moment.

"Shh," she smiled at Fëanáro, "it's alright my son. Your three youngest sons are free from the Halls and reside with Nerdanel. But before you may see them you must prove to them that you have changed."

"My boys were in the Halls?" He knew about Ambarto- Oh sweet Ilúvatar, Ambarto. His son, his son he had burned to death. The smith froze in his tracks, knees weak. "My boys... Ambarto... I killed my son."

Míriel knelt, "yes, and it will take time. He may never forgive you for it, and you shall have to learn to live with that, as he would not be at fault there. None of them may ever forgive you for what you put them through." She knelt down before she pulled her son into her shoulder, rubbing his back. 

He calmed, albeit slowly. "How am I supposed to face them again?"

"As I said, you shall have to earn it."

Determination filled his voice as he whispered, "how do I start?"

"Once we get home, I suspect you will wish to catch up on your history, much has changed in the world since last you walked it. Learn what you have played a role in and we shall carry on from there." The seamstress smiled, "now, come my little spark, we have a long walk ahead of us."

"We're walking?" Not that he minded, walking was one of his favorite hobbies, but Fëanáro would have liked some expediency in his quest to reclaim his family.

"Yes, my little spark, we are walking, but I have camp set already. Returning to life is an exhausting prospect to begin with, there's no need to exhaust you so quickly."

It was a slow trek back, catching up with his mother. Logically he knew that it should have taken less time, but adjusting to incarnation once more hindered him. He marveled as she explained the situation that had allowed her to come back. With his father dead, Míriel had been offered a chance, with a list of caveats attached, as well as one he did not expect. "Repeat that please."

"Your father is no longer married, and may no longer produce children." She cast her eyes to the stars.

The smith swallowed, "then..."

"You are still my son, Fëanáro, and Finwë is still your father, but it is a relief."

"A relief?!" He bristled before the last dregs of guilt grated on him. "I suppose it would be..."

Míriel considered for a moment as they crested a hill, "I should tell you something, my little spark. Do you know the reason I died when I bore you?"

"You put too much of yourself in me."

"Yes, and the reason is that your father was not my intended other half."

He froze in his tracks. "What?!"

"Neither is Indis, though she put less of herself into each of your siblings. As you know a soul bound couple on conception draws from both of them to create the spirit of their child or children."

"But then-" Fëanáro puzzled over this, "how did he not know?"

"I am uncertain, of the first of us, none of us knew who we would be bound to. Mahtan theorized that there were potentially multiple chances among us. Finwë just failed that twice, nothing more. As we were the first we could still conceive but at great strain. Contrary to what the Valar would have you believe, the laws and customs we abide are their edict, not the reality of our lives."

He frowned at his mother, "what are you implying by that?"

She raised an eyebrow as they descended towards the city, "elves may bed anyone who consents to it, but they are not married unless their souls touch."

The idea almost broke the elf's mind, "how do you know?"

Míriel grinned mischievously, "oh my son, I would hope you are not so innocent. Did you really think your father was the first elf I had sex with?"

Unable to articulate a coherent reply, he made a strangled noise.

"Did Finwë really never tell you what happened in Cuiviénen?" She giggled, "well I suppose Mahtan tells it better than he could. Suffice it to say that prior to Oromë arriving, we had much to figure out for ourselves, including sex. Ealygn and I had some excellent adventures. If you ever read Helyanwë's text on the matter, she asked us for our experiences.”

Fëanáro had never before in his life considered the idea of anyone having sex with someone they were not married to, which led to him considering having sex with someone other than Nerdanel. It had little appeal to him, even if he would keep the deep admiring crush he had developed as an apprentice on Mahtan a secret he would carry with him from the Halls. He swallowed, still trying to wrap his head around this, “I-I see. Thank you for this.”

The seamstress grinned, and guided him down a branch of the path to a small cottage near a copse. “And here is home.”

“Very cozy.” The former smith regarded the small house, it looked big enough for one, maybe two people at the most. Not that opulence was a factor in his judgments, far from it, but when one had as large an immediate family as he did, small houses seemed odd.

“You’ll be in the guest bedroom,” she instructed as she opened a gate set into a wooden fence. A garden full of flowers and trees greeted Fëanáro, fruits dangled from the branches while herbs and vegetables littered the ground. “Indis! I’m back!”

The Noldo froze, and stared at Míriel, “ _ Indis _ ?”

“Yes, and you will behave like a civilized adult to my wife.”

It was not in Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion’s nature to faint, but one could only take so much shock and scandal in such a short time.


	2. Time In Summary

When Fëanáro regained his wits, he found himself on a long, rather cozy couch, head cradled on a lap. “I hardly think that was necessary my little spark.” Míriel scolded as he sat up.

“To be fair,” an unexpected, deep voice addressed, “I was shocked when I heard.”

“Ñolo? What are you doing here?” The smith blinked.

“Seeing our mothers, may I say Lady Míriel, these scones are a treasure unparalleled.” Ñolofinwë Arakáno Finwion smiled across the gap to the breakfast table. “Want some, Brother?”

He was about to object when his stomach revealed it as a lie. Fëanáro rose to his feet, before he crossed the room to sit beside his brother. The cranberry orange scones were served with a sweet cream that the smith had to resist demanding a cupful of to eat for himself. “Where did these strange cakes come from?”

“Doriath,” Ñolofinwë explained as he took another, “I first tried them at a party Nelyo and I hosted to celebrate the reunification of the Noldor.”

“Ah,” the smith nodded, trying to reconcile that idea. It was easier now, especially after witnessing how the other elf had tried to care for his family in his absence. “I like these. Is there a recipe?”

Míriel chuckled, “of course. And Ñolo, you may call me your mother also if you wish.”

Fëanáro almost choked, even as his brother thumped him on the back to force the bit of scone down. “Of course,” Ñolofinwë beamed.

“What are you even doing here?” The smith managed as he swallowed.

The scholar’s grin widened, “well I was here to visit our mothers, Mum is around in the herb garden if you’re curious. But I was also here because Mama,” he nodded to Míriel, “offered to catch me up on world history, same as you.”

“Ah,” Fëanáro mused, “what year is it?”

“Twenty nine ninety eight, the Third Age of the Sun and Moon. You’ve been gone almost seven thousand years give or take.”

On the one hand education was a passionate subject of his, on the other almost seven thousand years of history could take months, if not years just to cover. “How much of this history is truly necessary?” He mused.

“More than you realize, for we are still living with the repercussions of your actions. Both of you,” came a new voice from the window as Indis stuck her head in.

Ñolofinwë brightened, “Mum!”

She beamed, chuckling, “you saw me when you arrived did you not?”

“Yes but it’s so wonderful to see you that I can’t help myself.” He countered, stealing another scone.

Fëanáro rolled his eyes, though lacking in the usual venom of the gesture. He rested his chin on his hand as he took another of the pastries. “I suppose the beginning then?”

“I believe your brother to be the best source on that for a little while. I’ll jump in when he’s finished.” Indis nodded as she walked to the patio door. “I caution you against relying on too many books written here, from what I’ve heard the flights of fancy some of these authors took are astounding.”

“How so?” Ñolofinwë tilted his head.

“Let me put it like this, there was one that declared one of Arafinwё’s grandchildren as being Findekáno’s by an unknown wife. The author later admitted that was an error but only after Findekáno publicly declared that he was, how did he put it?” 

“Intended for the man of his dreams and his heart’s greatest desire,” Míriel finished, “I thought it rather poetic, especially for someone with that many regrets about not marrying the person he loves.”

The brothers glanced to one another then sighed, that didn’t bode well. Their mothers picked up on this, “it does get very dark at times, but there is still hope, even now.”

“How dark is dark?” Fëanáro scowled, he had rather thought Findekáno and Maitimo’s combined strengths would have been more than enough to make up for their fathers’ failings.

Indis wandered over to the bookshelves and began pulling down a series of tomes, all in black leather with gold lettering. “One of the authors of this series, Erestor of Imladris, once described the end of the First Age as ‘a heartbreak so shattering and profound that not even Arda could tolerate it’. And then somehow things just continued to get worse.”

Ñolofinwë picked up a volume and thumbed through it, “this is all in the language of the Sindar.”

“Thindar,” Fëanáro corrected automatically. “That’s an interdental voiceless fricative, not an alveolar, little brother.”

“Boys, both of these are correct. I mean really, languages evolve,” Míriel’s eyes fell to her son, “I thought the descriptivist in you would see that.”

The smith hung his head, “yes Mama.”

“Good lad,” she smiled and kissed him on the top of his head. “We’re going to start our lessons now, would you like a notepad and pen?”

“Please, if I’ve been gone as long as you’ve said, I suspect notes could only be an asset.”

Indis fetched two bottles of ink, a pair of beautiful glass pens, and a stack of papers for each of them. “Would you wish to start with Valinor or Endórë?”

“Endórë,” Fëanáro answered too quickly, “I want to know what happened to my boys.”

Míriel settled in at the table with her wife. She picked up one of the books on the table and flicked it open. “Now, picking up where Náro left off, with the capture of Maitimo and the rising of the Sun and Moon.”

The elf braced himself as he dipped the pen in the ink, it would not be easy but he was optimistic about the future, his sons may have died, but maybe they died better people than he had led them to be. Not to mention his grandson was still fine, right?

~~~~~

Three weeks later and Fëanáro picked up his stack of notes on the First Age and was ready to throw the whole damn table against the wall. “How much more of this am I expected to suffer through?! My boys are dead, what more is there?!”

Míriel shook her head, “another Age and then some.”

“Besides,” Ñolofinwë stretched, “Makalaurё is still alive, hypothetically at least.”

Fëanáro slumped onto the table and rested his head on the seventh volume of the series, all about the War of Wrath. “Very well, the Second Age then.”

As Indis picked up a pot of tea, and began to recite from the book propped open on a stand near the fresh plate of sliced fruit and clotted cream. The former kings took out fresh sheets of paper making more notes, the elder’s becoming more erratic as he listened to what exactly befell his grandson. Two pots of tea later and he froze.

“What did they do to him?” Fëanáro snarled, “what did they do to my Neuro?!”

His brother restrained him as she read, “and thus his body, broken and bloodied, was borne as a banner before the host, his head upon the spike at the tip.” He let out a howl.

“Perhaps we should take a break,” the seamstress interjected as Ñolofinwë wrestled the smith away from his chair.

“Sounds good,” the younger elf agreed.

“Why don’t you boys take a walk?” Indis offered, “get some air.”

They relented and adjourned out to the garden. The pair set out into the field in silence, the former High King of Endórë waited until most of the tension had drained from his brother’s shoulders. “Say, Náro, have you thought about reapplying to the Smith Guild?”

“No, why would I? My job is to win my family back, once these history lessons are done, I intend to see them for myself.” He paused at the concerned look on the scholar’s face, “you don’t think it would work?”

“No, and not for the reason you’re thinking.” Ñolofinwë led them to a tree and ran a hand along the trunk. “We played the Sport yes, and we’ve healed from that, but neither of us has a place in this new Age. I think the first step, for both of us is fitting back in again. Because right now, we’re still in the First Age, and our families have grown and changed since then. We both need time to catch up, to find ourselves again, before we can even hope to go to them in earnest.”

The other elf sighed and ran a hand along the fuzz starting to grow into a proper hair. “I suppose you’ve a point there. Why the Smith Guild?”

His brother nudged his shoulder, “because you always think best when you’re busy, and you’re calmer to boot.”

“Fair.” He considered, “is Mahtan still running it?”

“Far as I can tell, yes.” Ñolofinwe smiled, “besides maybe Tyelpe is back? It could be a good place to start.”

“Mmm, I’d have to find a shop space wouldn’t I…”

“I can chip in some money. I don’t know what happened to all of your accounts when we left, Irimë and Anairë held mine until I came back.”

Fëanáro rolled his shoulders, “Nerdanel would be well within her rights to build a mansion and live in it with our sons without me, built from my funds.” He sighed, “I’ll pay back your loan when I find a shop space to purchase.”

“You’re not going to ask our sister to check on your accounts?” The scholar quirked an eyebrow.

The smith shook his head, “no, if I am to start, I want to start completely from scratch. Or as much as I can. I’ll live with our mothers until I can afford a place of my own.”

“I can’t tell if this is you being inspirational or stupid.” He frowned, “do you even know how to do things like laundry or make a bed?”

“Yes,” Fëanáro smiled, “I made it a point to do it for at least Nelyo…” His face fell, “wait… I’ll have to do this all the time. And buy my own groceries, and cook all of my meals…”

“I believe this is what the majority of our former subjects would classify as being an adult.” He jabbed his forlorn brother on the arm playfully.

Now worried, the smith led them back down the hill. They sat at the table once more and Indis turned the page of the book. “Did you boys enjoy your walk?”

“We did,” Ñolofinwë beamed, “Náro wants to reapply to the Smith Guild and start up a workshop again.”

Míriel kissed the top of Fëanáro’s head, “an excellent idea, my little spark. Would you like me to help you find a place to live and a workspace? There are some places down near the former mercantile district that go for fairly cheap.”

“Or you could try the, what did Ingwë say they called it?”

“The Lindi district, that could work but you know how they are about money.”

“True.”

Fëanáro considered, “I’ll look into my options and let you know. And no need to worry about buying my shop. Ñolo is giving me a loan and I shall repay it with reasonable interest when I re-establish myself.”

Indis smiled, “excellent, shall we get back to the history lesson then?”  
  
Both of the Noldor nodded and pulled over fresh sheets of paper to continue their notes.


	3. Benefit of the Doubt

Fëanáro clutched the crumpled letter in one hand, wondering if the rain pattering against his cloak would turn to steam if he grew angry enough. It had taken them three months in all to finish their history and language lessons, this language of the ‘Thindar’ was on the one hand a refreshing challenge, on the other his thick accent had earned Ñolofinwë and he a moment in something Míriel called a ‘get-along shirt’. For two hours he had been stuck with his brother in an over-sized tunic, trying to write his application to the Smith Guild.

They had devised an application for smiths who had died and re-embodied, and wished to skip apprenticeship. However his application had been denied, but they also sent an application for apprenticeship with the most polite “fuck you” of a rejection letter he had ever seen. It had then taken two days in the archives for him to find his paperwork required to fill out this form. After another two weeks of waiting they said that all of his preferred teachers had denied his request of apprenticeship, and that every full member of the guild had denied it, save one.

And so it was that Fëanáro found himself in the Lindi district in the middle of one of Tirion’s summer monsoons, soaked to the bone looking for someone named Rog. The people in the district had been more than obliging to help, which was a refreshing change of pace from the plague rat treatment the rest of the city had given him when asking for directions.

He knocked again on the door, and this time it was answered, by an elf that the smith could swear was his father by marriage, with the red hair and beard. However upon closer inspection, he found the other smith had much shorter hair, wore only a goatee and sideburns, and bore marks of death similar to his own. At a guess the other had burned to death, at worst, well fighting balrogs seemed to have a poor track record for elves. “Hello! You my next appointment? Cause you’re early. Or are you the bastard that was supposed to be here an hour ago for the candelabra?”

“Neither?” The straightforward approach of the smith caught him off guard, and it was then he realized the other smith was built like Mahtan to boot, tall as Nelyo, and twice as broad. “I was told you were expecting me, the Guild sent me, I’m your new apprentice.” He grumbled.

“Ah, of course! Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.” The smith beamed and clapped him on the shoulder before guiding him in. He took Fëanáro’s cloak and hung it on the coat rack near the hearth to dry. The other smith swung the hearth hook into the fireplace with a kettle dangling from it. He then motioned to a couple of chairs, “let me get a look at you.”

“Am I to take it you are Rog then?”

“Yes, Rog son of Ros, and you are?” The large elf beamed down at him.

“Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion,” he answered, noting the grumpy expression on Rog’s face.

“You’re Noldo then?”

“Yes,” he frowned, wondering at the question.

“Figures, you all have such long names. You have something shorter I can call you?”

“Fëanáro, or just Náro I suppose…” That in turn made him confused, was the other smith’s friendly nature just that infectious?

Rog beamed again, “Náro, like that. So Náro, they don’t usually send me apprentices, say my way of apprenticing’s too weird or some shit, and you don’t look like you’re just into puberty, so why are you here?”

“I am here because the Smith Guild rejected my application for re-embodied license to work, and sent me an application of apprenticeship, probably on the assumption I would be too offended to pursue the matter further, then, every other smith in the city who was qualified to take on apprentices said no, except for you. Why say yes?” Fëanáro tilted his head, watching the elf pull the whistling kettle and putting on a pot of some faintly sweet scented tea.

He straightened, carrying the pot over to the table between the chairs. “I like having someone around the shop, usually can’t get anyone not Lindi to stay. A couple have, good kids them. So I figured why not. But that doesn’t tell me why you’re here. I don’t like the Guild, the Guild doesn’t like me. So why are you here, and start at the beginning, and when you finish, I’ll tell you my story.”

“Are you certain you have time, you said you had customers?”

“One’s just a draft consultation, should take ten minutes at most, and I’ll probably have to deliver the candelabra on my way home.” Rog poured them each a cup of tea and settled in the other chair. “Now, whenever you’re ready.”

“It was my brother’s idea to-” Rog held up a hand, “what?”

“You’re jumping ahead, what’s the beginning? Who are you? What’s your clan like? That sort of thing.”

Fëanáro raised a skeptical eyebrow, “if you’re looking for details of my previous life there are entire sections in the bookstore dedicated to biographies of me.”

“I want to hear it from you, you’re the one who knows you best,” the Lindi replied.

The smith thought his new instructor odd but decided to humor him, as he had asked for Fëanáro’s side from him, rather than write him off at as soon as he said his name. It was a strangely polite gesture. And so he spoke, for two and a half pots of jasmine tea, with a ten minute pause for Rog’s consultation somewhere around the time Finwë died. “And that is how I found myself on your doorstep earlier today, and I believe you know the story from there.”

Rog closed his eyes and considered. After an unsettling long silence, he smiled at Fëanáro, “very well, now, if you’ll listen to me, I’ve got a proposal at the end for you.”

“Very well, you have my undivided attention.”

“My name is Rog, I was born before the sun rose, and I lived on a farm with my mum, Ros, my da Rokho, my aunt Celû, and my uncle Cogn. I had a younger sister, Mizdê, and two cousins, Inthil and Lapât, with a third on the way. When I was into my apprenticeship as a hunter with my uncle, an yrk party attacked our home. My da died, my mum, uncle, and I bought as much time as we could for my sister, aunt, and cousins to get away. They took us captive, my mum and uncle died there.

“I was rescued some time later by a band of your people. I was on my way to becoming an urk myself, I was angry and spiteful of a good many things. And it was in that state that I came to Ondolindë. During my time in the pits I’d learned the basics of smithing, watching the yrk as they worked. I thought someday to make weapons of my own and set us loose. So I set up shop in the city and worked. It gave me a focus for my anger, and it was at that time that my friend Egalmoth offered to mentor me. Things were better with him, he understood my anger, as he had been in the pits too. He taught me how to not let it rule me in addition to sex.

“For about four hundred years give or take, I stayed and sorted through my anger, I fought your wars and made weapons for them. Then one day the darkness found the city, and I died, taking four balrogs and a dragon with me. According to your histories and calendars, I spent almost five thousand years in the Skyless Halls, and came back because I got bored. I applied to your Smith Guild with Turukáno’s help, and set to work again, calmer, as though that place had made the pain hurt less. Not long after I met my husband and married him. We’ve been living here ever since.”

Fëanáro nodded silently along with the story, offering the occasional noise to show his mind had not wandered. Granted the linguistic part of his mind had started to analyze Rog’s strange manner of speaking Quenya, with his overemphasis of some consonants, and odd places of vowel articulation, not to mention using the shibboleth as naturally as breathing. The Noldo drained another round of jasmine tea. “Your water closet is…?”

“First door on the left,” Rog motioned.

Upon the Noldo’s return, the other elf smiled, “as I recall you said you had a proposal?”

“Yes,” the Lindi nodded, “so, I’m offering a partnership in the business, even split of work or as close to it as we can, split payments and all that. I’ll make you some tools, and the shop has a second work space that I can clear out for you.”

“That’s generous of you.”

The elf grinned, “in exchange, I’ll take you as my apprentice, but your marks will be how much progress you’ve made towards reclaiming your family, once you have them back, you’ll get mastery. I’m on your side, whatever you need for help on that front, advice, a bed, a home, whatever.”

“My marks?” Fëanáro tilted his head, now bewildered.

“Oh, I’ve still got my apron and gloves on.” He laughed before casting those and his shirt off. This treated the Noldo to the full sleeve and shoulder tattoos on the other elf’s arms. “Apprentice,” he traced a hand along one shoulder, “journeyman,” he traced along his elbow, “and master,” he ran along his forearm and wrist.

The Noldo almost missed the explanation, as curious and distracted as he was eyeing the rest of Rog’s physique. He blinked out of his reverie to give an appropriate nod, “fascinating, how do you get the paint to stay?”

“Ink under the skin, we’ll grab Olos in a couple of weeks, take you out into the wild and set you up with some!”

Fëanáro recalled the words of Arafinwë, preaching at him about how the body was a temple. Well his would just be decorated with art. He liked art, and he was already a social pariah, and he always thought that if you were going to do something you may as well go all out. “Very well.”

Rog beamed, “good good, so do you have a place to stay?”

“I’m staying with my mother-er mothers currently outside of town,” it was an odd statement to say the least. The Lindi frowned at it though, “why?”

“Nothing, just a bit dark and wet to be walking all that way alone. You’re welcome to stay with my husband and I. We’ve spare beds aplenty.”

“I, er, I thank you for the hospitality.”

“Just let me close up, I can give you a tour of the place while I’m at it. Tomorrow we can size you for tools and clear the work space.”

“Very well,” Fëanáro was beginning to find this odd elf with his straightforward nature rather likable. He’d heard the Noldo’s tale straight from his mouth, and Fëanáro wasn’t the type to sugar coat, and hadn’t judged him for it. If anything Rog’s offer to help him sounded sincere. He was given a brief tour of the shop, and once the Lindi had finished locking up, they set off through the damp deserted streets.

“Where is your house?” Fëanáro peered through the rain.

“Next to the shop, but I have to drop this off first,” the other smith held up the forgotten candelabra.

They made their way down two twisting streets to another small house sandwiched between shops. Rog knocked on the door and handed over the piece. The elf set it inside before handing over a sack. “Sorry ‘bout that Rog, y’know how pigs are?”

“I know Berô. You still on for clan dinner next week?”

“Yeah, see ya then.”

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow at the bag. The sack could hold a king’s ransom, and it was a candelabra delivered to a pig farmer from the sound of it. “Did he pay you in advance?”

“This is my payment,” Rog opened the sack to reveal six wrapped up slabs of meat.

That made the Noldo tilt his head, “what? He paid you in bacon and ribs?”

“Yep.”

“You mean you don’t use money?”

“Not unless we’re dealing with your folk.”

Fëanáro felt his worry grow as they headed back to Rog’s house.


End file.
